


A Damp Touch

by Leezih



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Dominant Magnussen, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Past Prostitution, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leezih/pseuds/Leezih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The intimacy fills Sherlock with disgust, everything from the damp touch on his cheeks to the minty breath on his skin. The tip of a nose touches his, causing a shiver to run down his spine in a body he wishes to leave, and Magnussen's lips hover dangerously close to his.</i>
  <br/><i>“John Watson is not your only pressure point, you know. You have a past you want to forget, and a present you want to hide. You are mine now.”</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock finds himself developing a human error for the man whose marriage is bound to fail. Ready to patiently wait for John to return to Baker Street there seems to be nothing but time keeping them apart, until Charles Augustus Magnussen retrieves information from the past...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Damp Touch

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set after Magnussen's and Sherlock's meeting in the restaurant in _His Last Vow_ and the storyline includes the deleted hospital scene. If you have not seen it or wish to refresh your memory you can find it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNpCm1y1xEk).

Charles Augustus Magnussen. Born 1964, Denmark. Educated at the University of Copenhagen, expatriate in England since the age of 26. Owner of several newspapers. Successful, wealthy, dangerous.

His next target: Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 

Life at Baker Street was not the same. Everything comes to an end, and what is better to symbolise the point of change than death? Mercilessly, its dark shadow had swept through the once familiar rooms of 221b, feasted upon the shared laughs imprinted in the walls, the arguments left as scratches in the table and the memories, precious and cherished, in form of case files splayed over the dusty floorboards. It had expelled the light and left the flat in darkness, thick and impenetrable, seeping out from the sockets and from the threatening space of nothingness beneath the sofa. The curtains remained forever closed, repelling every attempt of light to break through the barrier of decay as season succeeded season and life of those ignorant of the state of the flat proceeded with its everyday musts.

To expect anyone to stay in such a place, to rot away along with the ear in the sauce pan, had been foolish. The ear had been thrown out by a disgusted hand not bothering to first measure the pigment changes and finish the initiated report, and John had left soon after.

Two years of being supposedly dead and Sherlock has never felt emptier inside than when he returns to the world of the living. The moments of fulfilment are short and few, drenched in adrenaline, nostalgia and the presence of John. He has become what he swore to never become. His heart succumbed to the weakness before his brain could protest.

Sentiments. Human error.

He does not tell John why he faked his death. He does not mention the torture, the 72 extra napkins he folded in case of a last minute emergency, and he does not breathe a word about Magnussen.

The Napoleon of blackmail.

Magnussen, the man who has come to haunt his dreams when he is not reliving his time in Serbia. Who sends a shiver of unease down Sherlock's spine with his dead eyes and delicate touch. Who walks into any house with the confidence of its master.

The sitting room seems to shrink the moment the pair of shiny, black shoes crosses the threshold. They are not moving quickly but take each step as if the sound of heels on the floor is the complementary tones in a classical masterpiece. Two guards follow and stop by the door, and Sherlock sweeps his gaze over them from his position by the window. The curtains are pulled to the side, allowing the sun to shine through the glass and into the room where the darkness is forced back under the sofa. Hidden where it cannot be seen.

“Mr. Magnussen.”

Sherlock nods at him, but the man never sees his cold eyes. His attention is focused elsewhere, on the room itself.

“I see the Watsons are giving their marriage a second try.” The soft fingers, which a few weeks earlier touched Sherlock's, caress the checked blanket covering the top of John's chair. The motion is fluid, yet lingering, stroking the weaved threads like the naked skin of a lover. “And yet his arm chair has made a reappearance. Fascinating. Or sad, depending on your point of view.”

The slender fingers come to a stop and is slowly lifted off the blanket. One by one they leave the chair until Magnussen straightens his wrist and thoughtfully looks down at his own fingertips. Trapped between his index finger and his thumb, he crushes whatever he found there, the dust, the blond hairs, the memories of John.

“I have been in this business for a long time, Mr. Holmes, and this story would make the front page. _Third time lucky? Resurrected detective cheats death once more – shot by best friend's wife_.”

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows, his forehead furrowing in polite inquiring. “Are you threatening me?”

Magnussen chuckles, a quiet noise which leaves his eyes as dead as ever. “Oh no, Sherlock. I am merely a business man, I thought I made that quite clear?”

“You claim to be, yes.” Sherlock folds his hands behind his back and, with the amount of empty space between the two of them, moves his gaze from Magnussen's face and the hint of an amused smile he can see there. The guards, who have not moved since they took their positions by the door, stare blankly in front of themselves, seemingly allowing their employer a private conversation whilst in fact are ready to intervene at any second would something go wrong. One smoker and one adulterer. Coin collector and dog owner. Both carrying arms.

“You felt the need to bring guards.” Sherlock looks back at Magnussen and once again quirks an eyebrow. “Perhaps you are the one who feels threatened by me?”

“I appreciate your confidence, but no.” Magnussen leisurely leaves the chair and strolls up to the table, where he pushes paper after paper aside with a pointy finger to read the information written on bills, experiment reports, newspaper clippings and a wedding invitation. The last one catches his interest and he picks it up, stroking the smooth surface with his thumb. “However, I do like to have the odds on my side. Last time we met you were still attached to medical equipment. The time before that... Well, I doubt you even remember.”

“Oh, I remember,” Sherlock replies coldly. The fingers of his right hand, still hidden behind his back, stretch until the webbing hurts and he bends the fingertips into claws. “I remember it vividly.”

“Good.” Magnussen smiles. “As I hope you understand, guards were hardly necessary considering your drugged state at the time. Does not mean I'm not happy to see you up and about. You are, after all, the last stepping stone before your big brother. Surely you have figured out how it all works by now, Sherlock. The woman who currently goes under the name Mrs. Mary Watson is nothing but an asset to me. She was never the main focus of my interest.”

He lifts the invitation to his lips and covers her name with a kiss, before he lets it float through the air and land on the table once more.

“You control Mary and therefore you control Mycroft,” Sherlock replies and carefully follows Magnussen with his gaze as the man walks back into the open space in the middle of the sitting room. “As you may recall from our last meeting, I have already offered you my brother.”

“You think this is about Mycroft.” Magnussen chuckles with a shake of his head. “Oh no, Sherlock. I know what you said and I will patiently wait for my Christmas gift. In Christmas spirit, I will even be as patient as to wait until the 25th, rather than the 24th. No, this meeting is about us.”

Sherlock's inhalation stops abruptly and the oxygen never reaches his lungs. His unseeing eyes stare at Magnussen whilst his sight seems to throb and blacken. The whirring sound in his ears muffles the sound of footsteps and when Sherlock can inhale again, Magnussen has already placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't look so alarmed." Magnussen smiles and moves his hand up until he can slip two fingers inside the collar of Sherlock's shirt and give his shoulder a squeeze. Comforting coming from anyone else, repulsing coming from the man in front of him. "Relax, Sherlock. There is no one else here."

Sherlock stands tall despite the implied threat. Despite his spinning head and the adrenaline, rushing through his body with the speed of a chase, making his breathing short and rapid, he keeps his appearance unchanged. Cold eyes meet Magnussen's and he shrugs the fingers off.

"Stay back."

Magnussen's hand falls down and he cocks an eyebrow. "Oh dear, your drugged self was a lot more compliant."

"Stay back," Sherlock repeats. He will not allow his own feet to move, denying them the instinctive step back. His house, his rules.

Magnussen smiles softly and a moment later his hand is back on Sherlock's shoulder, smoothing the creases in his shirt. "For someone so clever you can be remarkably ignorant. Do you need me to once again explain how I own you?"

"I hardly think John would consent to this."

"I am not looking for John Watson's consent," Magnussen murmurs and lifts his hand as Sherlock shrugs again, only to put it back a moment later with a reproachful look. "Although, you might be more interested in his opinions."

"In order to get to Mycroft, you need me," Sherlock says coldly. "I might change my mind, and then what? You would have to find another way to him."

“But you wouldn't let that happen, would you?” Magnussen's hand moves up to his neck and he slowly caresses the exposed skin, tracing the downward slope until he reaches Sherlock's Adam's apple. “You would not let John Watson down like that.”

From his Adam's apple, Magnussen's fingers continue upwards, up the sharp angle of his chin until he can cup Sherlock's cheeks. The grip is firm but gentle, dominating but confident. He knows that Sherlock will not pull away.

Slowly, the man leans closer. The intimacy fills Sherlock with disgust, everything from the damp touch on his cheeks to the minty breath on his skin. The tip of a nose touches his, causing a shiver to run down his spine in a body he wishes to leave, and Magnussen's lips hover dangerously close to his.

“John Watson is not your only pressure point, you know. You have a past you want to forget, and a present you want to hide. You are mine now.”

Magnussen's breath is as humid as his touch. It spreads over Sherlock's lips like a cloud, Magnussen lowers his gaze to trace the line of Sherlock's cupid bow and a moment later the man leans all the way in to seal their lips in a kiss.

It lasts for a lifetime. Thin lips press against Sherlock's and sharp, well trimmed stubble rasps against his skin when Magnussen tilts his head ever so slightly.

Sherlock is the one to break the kiss, when the shock fades enough to leave room for actions. He pushes Magnussen away and then wipes his lips on his sleeve in the vain hope the fabric will absorb the memory along with the wetness.

Magnussen withdraws with a chuckle and Sherlock takes the opportunity to inhale shakily. He feels as disgusted as disgusting.

“Do you see it now, Sherlock?” Magnussen raises his hand and one of the guards steps forward to hand him a napkin, which Magnussen uses to delicately dry his own lips. “I own you. I own all the naughty people in this country, and you have been oh so naughty, Sherlock. Such a bad boy.”

The napkin is crumpled into a ball and nonchalantly tossed onto the soft cushion of John's arm chair where it occupies the gaping emptiness left behind its former owner.

“I have to admit that it took embarrassingly long for me to recognise you, Sherlock,” Magnussen continues. “But to my defence, a lot of things change in almost twenty years.”

“I don't know what you are talking about.”

“And if you do as I say, no one else ever will.” Magnussen smiles offeringly and his hand moves down to the front of his trousers to slowly palm himself through the fabric. “Or do you think John Watson ever could love a whore?”

Sherlock, who has struggled to keep his attention away from Magnussen's inappropriate action, does not have to struggle any more. He zones out of reality, his body freezes and he stared blankly in front of himself. Ice washes through him and paralyses his brain and it is obvious, when words fail him, that Magnussen has found a pressure point.

“I don't...That's...”

Words fail him so rarely that Sherlock stands bewildered. The white lies usually come naturally, a small twist of reality to suit his purpose. Yes, mummy, I did eat the cookies you sent. No, Mycroft, I did not practise surveillance on you and your colleagues.

No, Mr. Magnussen, I do not care whether John could love me.

The words will not come out, because in a field he knows so little the words are so true. They fill him entirely and he does care. He cares about John, he cares about John's opinions. Inconvenient but true, John never leaves his mind.

“He is married.” Sherlock voice is monotone when he finally finds a reply, empty behind the rush of painful emotions in his chest. “John is in love with Mary.”

“Shall I remind you of my earlier comment?” Magnussen takes a small step to the side and his open palm gestures at John's arm chair. “You deemed it suitable to reintroduce the chair to the flat. Do you not hope to also bring back Dr. Watson?”

Magnussen pauses, just long enough for them to realise that, just like his previous question, Sherlock cannot deny the truth in his words.

“You know that their marriage won't last and you are waiting for John to move back in. But this time it will be different, won't it? You have lost him once, you know the pain and the helplessness of loss. No, this time you will have to make a change. You are meant for each other. The famous Sherlock Holmes and his ever so loyal sidekick.”  
“John is my friend,” Sherlock says quietly. “I would never wish him the pain of a divorce.”

“Love can be selfish,” Magnussen replies and a soft sound of obscenity leaves his lips when he gives the growing bulge in his trousers a gentle squeeze. “We both know that you are the one Dr. Watson will turn to after the divorce and I am still waiting for your answer. Could John Watson love a whore?”

Slowly, Sherlock's gaze falls. It moves from Magnussen's face, down his body and lands on the floor as his head follows the motion of despair and regret.

“How did you know?”

“You led me to the conclusion.” Magnussen's feet shuffle over the floor, spreading as he stands with his legs further apart to adjust the bulge now straining the fabric in his trousers. “Your little drug addiction stirred an old memory. It has been nearly twenty years, but once I dug deep enough it was obvious that you are the young man whose warm mouth I once defiled. Desperate for money and desperate for highs. Now be a good boy for me, Sherlock, and the world won't know what a naughty thing you once were.”

Sherlock does not move. His feet are frozen to the floor, his chest filled with dark emptiness. “I don't-”

“You don't lose your own pants,” Magnussen finishes Sherlock's numb sentence. “I remember. Your mouth will be enough. This time.”

Sherlock's head snaps up and his piercing gaze locks with the man's, but Magnussen offers him nothing but a shrug.

“If you are assuming that-”

Magnussen cuts him off once again, this time by lifting a slender finger and reproachingly tap his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Arguing with me will not keep John in oblivion, Sherlock. If I don't see those beautiful lips being used for better things soon, I will have your sad story printed in tomorrow's editions and a copy sent as a gift to Dr. Watson. I doubt I will have the pleasure of printing your engagement announcement after that.”

An engagement announcement. The words alone are enough to send a poison drenched arrow through his heart. Sherlock could never allow himself to imagine such a joy, his name next to John not gay-not his date-not a couple Watson's. Still, he would like to keep the hope alive. He cannot fight the pathetic and long ignored human inside of him, with romantic optimism and foolish conviction that also he deserves happiness.

Like a mindless robot programmed by society he moves forward, guided by the beckoning hand of someone with authority. A palm on his shoulder applies gentle pressure, enough for his knees to buckle until he is half of his normal height. Kneeling on the floor, hands in front of himself and with his head shamefully bowed, it only takes a moment before he feels steady fingers card through his hair. They stroke over his scalp and stimulate his follicles, giving him a moment of reluctant pleasure before the grip tightens and a hiss if drawn from Sherlock's lips.

“Up here, Sherlock,” Magnussen purrs and he forces Sherlock's head back.

With his chin lifted he is looking into the dark fabric of the pair of trousers, where the bulge is fighting its restraints. Magnussen's hand travels to his nape and with a firm push forward Sherlock's nose is buried in the hard swell of the man's crotch. Magnussen finds obvious pleasure in the scene, even with his trousers still on and with his erection imprisoned. He exhales a soft moan, a noise so quiet that it makes the hair on Sherlock's neck stand. As if they are lovers. As if Magnussen's fingers rub his neck in order to give Sherlock as much pleasure as Magnussen is about to take.

The hand on his neck gives Sherlock another push forward and his nose is pressed firmer into the darkness of fabric and musk.

“You can do better than that.” Magnussen's voice is lower than before, altered by arousal. It has lost some of its efficiency and the Danish accent is seeping through the otherwise carefully pronounced words. “Or have years of loneliness made you forget how to pleasure a man?”

Sherlock grits his teeth and Magnussen's trousers suddenly offers a welcomed coverage as an angry blush appears on his cheeks.

“No,” he replies shortly. What Magnussen calls years of loneliness are years spent reading women's magazines and a large number of _How to please your man_ articles. He was indeed lonely, but he could bring John to climax within the matter of minutes if their friendship ever would take that turn. John, with strong libido and equally strong moral principles. He would be disgusted by the bare thought of Sherlock putting his lips and throat to use for money.

Sherlock's eyelids fall down, enveloping him in forgiving darkness, as he rubs his nose against Magnussen's groin. To nuzzle into someone like that, to reverently submit to the urges of another man, is degrading and Sherlock suspects that is Magnussen's intention. To make the power imbalance even more prominent. To assert his ownership and total control.

Magnussen's hand soon relaxes and moves to play with Sherlock's curls. Like reins, they are used to get his will and a sensitive Sherlock responses almost instantly when a lock is pulled too harshly. His lips part and he lets the bulge sink inside, covering the fabric with his hot breath. A ghost from the past reaches up and undoes Magnussen's belt, and a moment later finds both trousers and boxers around the polished shoes.

Sherlock knows that the best way to be left alone is to get them off quickly and he regrets that the knowledge comes from experience.

He eyes the cock in front of him for a moment, the hard erection which unfolded itself when the boxers were dropped, thin but with a length it would be foolish to underestimate. Surrounded by a bush of pubic hair it stands out from Magnussen's body, ready to defile Sherlock's mouth once more.

“Your turn ons are highly questionable,” Sherlock says coldly and bows down to sink his nose into the wild mess of coarse hairs. They tickle his skin but he does not stay there long enough to fully experience it before his tongue has landed on the very base of Magnussen's cock and he follows its length in a long, firm lick. The stimulation drags a deep moan from Magnussen. It rumbles in his chest and the vibrations reach Sherlock physically in form of a tighter grip of his curls.

“You're mine now, Sherlock. I see nothing wrong in using one's possessions for pleasure.” Magnussen smiles delicately and traces Sherlock's lips with a single finger. “That's enough talking.”

He grabs his member and Sherlock only catches a glimpse of a swollen head before his lips are forced apart. Magnussen pushes forward, with one hand guiding his cock and one hand on the back of Sherlock's head to keep him still, all the way in until Sherlock is choking. Magnussen does not acknowledge his struggle as he stops and tilts his head back with a groan. Warm and tight, Sherlock's throat swallows convulsively and the muscles work the sensitive head and swollen veins of the erection.

Tears burn in the corners of Sherlock's eyes when Magnussen withdraws and he is allowed the panicked gasp his lungs have been fighting for. The gasp is followed by a second one, but his attempt to bend forward is stopped by a firm hand. The wet cock, drenched in Sherlock's own saliva, play over his cheeks and lips.

“Now you know what will come.” Magnussen's voice is husky and his stance changes to a more comfortable one, legs wide apart for balance with hips sunken to line up with Sherlock's face. “Prepare yourself.”

Sherlock's eyes are burning when he looks up, but not painfully like the tears. He meets Magnussen's dilated gaze with contempt, with a single, powerful look showing exactly what he thinks of the man whose cock a moment later thrusts past his lips and into his mouth. Magnussen smirks, anything but bothered by Sherlock's disgust, and gently strokes his cheek.

“You'd make a lovely pet.”

Sherlock's lips tighten around Magnussen's member as the statement sends a shudder through his body. His gaze falls and he can hear the man chuckle above his head, mercilessly and without inviting Sherlock in. The shallow thrusts are followed by a deeper one and Magnussen presses Sherlock's face into the pit of his stomach. It does not last long enough to make Sherlock panic, the cock is pulled back with a controlled motion and the shallow thrusting continues, Magnussen's hips rolls with a slow pace and a quiet humming can be heard from the man's lips. The whole process is repeated enough times for Sherlock to get to terms with the breathing, when to inhale and when his air supply will be completely cut off. The bead of pre-cum, salty and sticky, overcome the musky taste of man and it is not until Sherlock's tongue impulsively flicks up for a taste that Magnussen shows the first sign of lack of self-control. A shudder, similar to the one previously running through Sherlock's body but at the same time completely different, rolls down the man's spine and he pushes past Sherlock's uvula and deep down his throat. Only chasing his own pleasure, Magnussen pounds into his mouth, forcing his lips to stretch and his muscles to accept the erection as he over and over again thrusts into the back of his throat.

Sherlock is choking, his muscles contracting as convulsively as before as they try to throw up what is not supposed to occupy his throat. His body jerks forward before Magnussen can catch him and big, greedy hands on each side of his head hold him perfectly still as he shamelessly fucks Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's vision is blackening by the time Magnussen groans and pushes inside for the last time, emptying his load down Sherlock's throat. The salty substance fills him up almost to the degree of the prick and Sherlock swallows time after time to get it all down. Some seep out through his open lips when Magnussen pulls out, rolling down his chin like melted ice cream.

He cannot lift his gaze to look at the other man when he has calmed down enough to breathe again. The taste of sperm is still present in his mouth and the back of his hand feels stiff where the cum he wiped off his chin slowly is drying. He lets Magnussen run his cock over his face one last time, leaving a string of white semen on his pale skin, and does not protest when the man proceeds with wiping his fading erection clean on what used to be John's blanket.

He does not look up until he hears a belt being buckled and two pairs of feet move. The guards are leaving and Magnussen is ready to follow them with his confident posture and unpalatable smile. If it were not for his still dilated eyes it would have been as if nothing had happened between them.

“Until next time, Sherlock.” Magnussen brushes his thumb over Sherlock's lips, looking at him with dark, unreadable eyes, and then turns around to leave. He stops in the doorway and gives the mess he has turned Sherlock into a last, appreciative look as he buttons his jacket.

“I told you you would get used to my touch.” 


End file.
